NOT UNDER THE LAW

GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL’S

Charming and Wholesome Romances

The Story of a Whim
Re-Creations
Tomorrow About This Time
The Tryst
The City of Fire
Cloudy Jewel
Exit Betty
The Search
The Red Signal
The Enchanted Barn
The Finding of Jasper Holt
The Obsession of Victoria Gracen
Miranda
The Best Man
Lo, Michael!
Marcia Schuyler
Phoebe Deane
Dawn of the Morning
The Mystery of Mary
The Girl from Montana
The Big Blue Soldier

NOT UNDER THE
LAW

BY
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
AUTHOR OF “MARCIA SCHUYLER”, “THE CITY OF FIRE”, ETC.

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1925

COPYRIGHT, 1924 AND 1925, BY THE GOLDEN RULE COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

NOT UNDER THE LAW

CHAPTER I

The kitchen door stood open wide, and the breath from the meadow blew freshly across Joyce Radway’s hot cheeks and forehead as she passed hurriedly back and forth from the kitchen stove to the diningroom table preparing the evening meal.

It had been a long, hard day and she was very tired. The tears seemed to have been scorching her eyelids since early morning, and because her spirit would not let them out they seemed to have been flowing back into her heart till its beating was almost stopped by the deluge. Somehow it had been the hardest day in all the two weeks since her aunt died; the culmination of all the hard times since Aunt Mary had been taken sick and her son Eugene Massey brought his wife and two children home to live.

To begin with, at the breakfast table Eugene had snarled at Joyce for keeping her light burning so long the night before. He told her he couldn’t afford to pay electric bills for her to sit up and read novels. This was most unjust since he knew that Joyce never had any novels to read, but that she was studying for an examination which would finish her last year of normal school work and fit her for a teacher. But then her cousin was seldom just. He took especial delight in tormenting her. Sometimes it seemed incredible that he could possibly be Aunt Mary’s son, he was so utterly unlike her in every way. But he resembled markedly the framed picture of his father Hiram Massey, which hung in the parlor, whom Joyce could but dimly remember as an uncle who never smiled at her.

She had controlled the tears then that sprang to her eyes and tried to answer in a steady voice:

“I’m sorry, Gene, I was studying, I wasn’t reading a novel. You know last night was the last chance I had to study. The examination is today. Maybe when I get a school I’ll be able to pay those electric light bills and some other things too.”

“Bosh!” said Eugene discourteously, “You’ll pay them a big lot, won’t you? That’s all poppy-cock, your trying to get a school, after a whole year out of school yourself. Much chance you’ll stand! And you may as well understand right now that I’m not going to undertake the expense of you lying around here idling and pretending to go to school for another whole year, so you better begin to make other plans.”

Joyce swallowed hard and tried to smile:

“Well,” she said pleasantly, “Wait till after the examinations. I may pass and then there won’t be any more trouble about it. The mathematics test is this morning. If I pass that I’m not in the least afraid of the rest. It is all clear sailing.”

“What’s that?” broke in Nannette’s voice sharply, “Are you expecting to go off this morning? Because if you are you’ve missed your calculation. I have an appointment with the dressmaker in town this morning and I don’t intend to miss it. She’s promised to get my new dress done by the day after tomorrow, and you’ll have to stay home and see that the children get their lunch and get back to school. Besides, it’s time the cellar was cleaned and you’d better get right at it. I thought I heard a rat down there last night.”

Joyce looked up aghast:

“But Nan! You’ve known all along I must go to the school house this morning early!”

“You needn’t ‘but-Nan’ me, young lady, you’re not in a position to say ‘must’ to any one in this house. If mother chose to let you act the independent lady that was her affair, but she’s not here now, and you’re a dependent. It’s time you realized that. I say I’m going to town this morning, and you’ll have to stay at home.”

Nannette had sailed off upstairs with the parting words and Eugene went on reading his paper as if he had not heard the altercation. For a moment Joyce contemplated an appeal to him but one glance at the forbidding eyebrows over the top of the morning paper made her change her mind. There was little hope to be had from an appeal to him. He had never liked her and she had never liked him. It dated back to the time when she caught him deceiving his mother and he dared her to tell on him. She had not told, it had not seemed a matter that made it necessary, but he hated her for knowing he was not all that his mother thought him. Besides, he was much older than she, and had a bullying nature. Her clear, young eyes annoyed him. She represented conscience in the concrete, his personal part of which he had long ago throttled. He did not like to be reminded of conscience, and too, he had always been jealous of his mother’s love for Joyce.

Joyce glanced with troubled eyes at the clock.

She was due at the school house at nine-thirty. Gene would take the eight-nineteen train to town, and Nan would likely go with him. There would be time after they left to put up a lunch for the children if she hurried. Nan didn’t like them to take their lunch, but Nan would have to stand it this time, for she meant to take that examination. She shut her lips tightly and began to remove the breakfast things from the table swiftly and quietly, leaving a plate for Junior who would be sure to be down late.

Her mind was stinging with the insults that had been flung at her. She had always known that she and her cousins were not compatible but such open words of affront had never been given her before, although the last few days since the funeral there had been glances and tones of contempt that hurt her. She had tried to be patient, hoping soon to be in a position where she would not longer be dependent upon her relatives.

There was some wrangling between Junior and his sister before Nan and Gene left for the train, and Joyce had been obliged to leave her work to settle the dispute; and again after they were gone she had to stop spreading the bread for the lunches and hunt for Junior’s cap and Dorothea’s arithmetic. It was a breathless time at the end, getting the lunches packed and the children off to school. She met with no opposition from them about taking their lunches for they loved to do it, but they insisted on two slices apiece of jelly roll which so reduced the amount left in the cake box that Joyce added “jelly roll” to the numerous things she must do when she got back from her examination.

But at last she saw them run off together down the street and she was free to rush to her room, smooth her hair, and slip into her dark blue serge. It remained to be seen how much time there would be left for the cellar when she got home. But whatever came she must get those examinations done.

When she was half way downstairs she ran back and picked up a few little treasured trinkets from her upper bureau drawer sweeping them into her bag, some things that Aunt Mary had given her, a bit of real lace, some Christmas handkerchiefs, one or two pieces of jewelry, things that she prized and did not want handled over. Both Dorothea and her mother seemed to consider they had a perfect right to rummage in her bureau drawers and the day before Joyce had come upon Nan just emerging from her clothespress door as if she had been looking things over there.

It was not that the girl had anything of much value, but there were a few little things that seemed sacred to her because of their association, and she could not bear to have them handled over contemptuously by her cousin. Nan might return sooner than she expected and would be sure to come to her room to look for her. It would only anger her if she found the door locked, and anyhow the spare room key fitted her lock also. There was no privacy to be had in the house since Aunt Mary’s death.

Joyce closed and locked the house carefully, placing the key in its usual place of hiding at the top of the porch pillar under the honeysuckle vine, and hurried down the street toward the school building. She registered a deep hope that she might get home in time to do a good deal of work in the cellar before Nan arrived but she meant to try to forget cellar and Nan and everything till her examinations were over.

At the school house she found to her dismay that the schedule had been changed and that three of her tests came successively that day. There would be no chance of getting through before half past three, perhaps later. Nan would be angry, but it could not be helped for this once. She would try and forget her until she was through and then hurry home. She resolved not to answer back nor get angry that night if anything mean was said to her, and perhaps things would calm down. So she put her mind on logarithms, Latin conjugations and English poetry. These examinations offered the only way she knew to independence and it must be taken.

Late in the afternoon she hurried home, tired, faint, worried lest she had not answered some of the questions aright, palpitating with anxiety lest Nan had preceded her, or the children were running riot.

Breathlessly she came in sight of the house, and saw the front door open wide and the doctor’s car standing in the drive. She ran up the steps in fright and apprehension.

Nan was very much home indeed, and was furious! She met Joyce in the hall and greeted her with a tirade. Junior had been hurt playing baseball and had been brought home with a bandaged head and arm, weeping loudly.

Dorothea lolled on the stairs blandly eating the remainder of the jelly roll and eyeing her cousin with contempt and wicked exultation. She had already lighted the fuse by saying that she and Junior hadn’t wanted to take their lunch, but Cousin Joyce had insisted, and had given them all the jelly roll. The light in her mother’s eye had been such as to make Dorothea linger near at the right time. Dorothea loved being on the virtuous outside of a fight. If one showed signs of dying she knew how to ask the right question or say the innocent word to revive it once more. Dorothea contemplated Joyce now with deep satisfaction.

The doctor’s car was scarcely out of the gate and down the road before the storm broke once more upon Joyce’s tired head.

Joyce did not wait to go upstairs to her room and change her dress. She took off her hat on the way to the kitchen and put it and her bag and books and papers on the little bench outside the kitchen door where no one would be likely to notice them. She enveloped herself in a big kitchen apron and went to work, preparing the vegetables for dinner and getting out materials for jelly roll. Then Nan entered, blue blazes in her eye.

Nan had not taken off her hat yet and around her neck she was wearing Joyce’s pretty gray fox neckpiece, Aunt Mary’s last Christmas gift, which Joyce had supposed was safely put away in camphor on her closet shelf. Joyce had not noticed it in the darkness of the hall, but now the indignity struck her in the face like a blow as Nan stood out in the open doorway smartly gowned and powdered and rouged just a bit, her face angry and haughty, her air imperious:

“You ungrateful, wicked girl!” broke forth Nan. “You might just as well have been a murderer! Suppose Junior had been brought home dying and no one to open the house?”

“I’m sorry, Nan,” began Joyce, “I did not expect to be gone so long. I was told there would be only one examination today.”

“Examinations! Don’t talk to me about examinations! That’s all you care about! It’s nothing to you that the little child who has lived under the same roof with you for three years is seriously hurt. It’s nothing to you even if he had been killed. And he might have been killed, easily! Yes, he might, you wicked girl! It was at noon he was playing ball when he got hit, and you knew I didn’t want him to stay at school at noontime just for that reason. The bad boys tried to hurt him,” so she raved on, “It was your fault. Entirely your fault!”

There was absolutely no use in trying to say anything in reply. Nannette would not let her. Whenever she opened her lips to say she was sorry her cousin screamed the louder, till Joyce finally closed her lips and went about her work with white, set face, wishing somehow she might get away from this awful earth for a little while, wondering what would be the outcome of all this when Gene got home. Gene was not very careful himself about Junior. He spoiled him horribly, but he was very keen about defending him always. As she went about her kitchen work she tried to think what she could say or do that would still the tempest. It seemed to her that her heart was bursting with the trouble. Maybe she ought to have given up the examination after all. Maybe she should have stayed at home. But that would have meant everlasting dependence upon those to whom she was not closely bound. And Junior had already recovered sufficiently to be out in his bandages swinging on the gate. He could not be seriously injured. Oh, why could she not have died instead of Aunt Mary! Why did people have to bring children into the world and then leave them to fend for themselves where they were not wanted? What was life all for anyway?

Dorothea hovered around like a hissing wasp, filching the apples as they were peeled and quartered for the apple sauce, sticking a much soiled finger into the cake batter, licking it, and applying it again to the batter several times, in spite of Joyce’s protests. She seemed to know that her mother would not reprove her for anything she did to annoy Joyce tonight.

Gene came in while Joyce was taking up the dinner, and Joyce could hear his wife telling in a high suppressed key all the wrongs of the day, with her own garbled account of Junior’s accident and Joyce’s disregard of orders. So the tears stung into her eyes and her hot cheeks flushed warmer and the only thing in the world that gave her any comfort was the sweet spring breath from the meadow coming in the kitchen door as she passed and repassed, carrying dishes of potatoes and cabbage and fried pork chops. Their mingled hot odors smothered her as they steamed up into her face, and then would come that sweet, cool breeze, blowing them aside, laying a cool hand on her wet brow like the hand of a gentle mother. How she longed to fly away into the coolness and sweetness and leave it all behind. How many times during the last two hard weeks had she looked out that kitchen door across the meadows and longed to be walking across them into the world away from it all forever.

Gene came into the diningroom just as she set the hot coffee-pot down on the table, and he looked at her with his cold blue eyes, a look that was like a long, thin blade of steel piercing to her very soul. She thought she had never before seen such a look of contempt and hate. She felt as if it were something tangible that he had inserted into her soul which she would never be able to get out again.

“Well, you’re a pretty one, aren’t you? Mother was always boasting about how dependable you were, I wonder what she would think of you now! I always knew you had it in you. You’re just like your contemptible father! Get an idea in your head and have to carry it out. Bull-headed. That’s what you are. That’s what he was. I remember hearing all about it. He wanted to study up some germ and make himself famous. Had to go and get into some awful disease, subject himself to danger, and finally got the disease and died. Pretended he was doing a great thing for humanity at large, but left his wife and child for her poor sister to support and saddled us all with a girl just like him to house and feed and clothe. Now, young lady, I want you to understand from this time forth that we’re done with nonsense and whether you pass or whether you don’t pass, your place is right here in this house doing the work and taking the orders from my wife! I’ve got you to look after and I’ll do it, but I don’t intend to stand any more of your monkey-shines. Do you hear? I won’t have anybody in my house that doesn’t obey me!”

Joyce looked at him in a kind of tired wonder. She knew there were things being said that were dissecting her very soul, and that by and by when she moved she would bleed, perhaps her soul might bleed to death with the sharpness of it all, but just now she had not the strength to resent, to say anything to refute the awful half-truths he was speaking, to shout out as she felt she ought, that he had no right to speak that way about her dear, dead father whom she had not known much, could scarcely remember, but had been taught by both mother and aunt to love dearly. She could only stand and stare at him as he talked. She was growing white to the lips. Her knees were shaking under her, and the children stared at her curiously, even Nannette eyed her strangely. She was summoning all her strength for an effort:

“Cousin Eugene,” she said clearly as if she were talking to some one away off, and her voice steadied as she went on. “You know I don’t have to stay here if you feel this way. I will go!”

And then, like a bird that suddenly sees an opening in its cage and sets its wings swiftly, she turned and walked out of the room, across the kitchen, and out the kitchen door into the evening sunlight and the sweet meadow breath.

On the bench beside the door lay her hat covering her little worn handbag and books and papers. She swept them all up as she passed, and held them in front of her as she walked steadily on down the pebbled path among the new grass toward the garage, the blinding tears now coming and blurring every thing before her.

“Let her alone!” she heard Gene sneer loudly, “She’ll go out to the garage and boo-hoo awhile and then she’ll come back and behave herself. Dishes? I should say not! Don’t you do a dish! Let her do ’em when she gets over her fit. It’ll do her good. She’ll be of some use to you after this.”

Joyce swept away the tears with a quick hand and lifted her head. Why should she weep when she was walking away from this? She had wanted to go, had wondered and wished for an opening, and now it had come, why be sad? She was walking away into the beauty of the sunset. Smell the air! She drew a deep breath and went straight on past the garage, down through the garden to the fence, and stooping slipped between the bars and into the meadow.

There were violets blooming among the grass here, blue as the sky, and nodding to her, dazzling in their blueness. There was a dandelion. How bright its gold! The world was before her. The examination was not over. But what of that? She could not go back to take her diploma anyway, but she was free, and God would take care of her somewhere, somehow.

A sense of buoyancy bore her up. Her feet touched the grass of the meadow as if it had been full of springs. She lost the consciousness of her great weariness. Her soul had found wings. She was walking into a crimson path of the sunset, and April was in her lungs. How good to be away from the smell of pork chops and hot cabbage, the steam of potatoes and Gene Massey’s voice. Never, never would she go back. Not for all the things she had left behind. They were few. She was glad she had her few little trinkets. They were all that mattered anyway. Except the fur neckpiece. It went hard to lose that. The last thing Aunt Mary bought her. Of course it would have been wiser to wait to pack. There were her two good gingham dresses, and two others that were faded, but she would need things to work in, and there was the little pink Georgette that Aunt Mary bought her last summer! She hated to lose that. But Aunt Mary, if she could see would quite understand, and if she could not see it could all be explained in heaven some day. There would be no use sending to Nannette or Gene for anything. They would never send her a rag that belonged to her. There would be inconveniences of course, her hair-brush, her tooth brush—but what were they?

And then, quite suddenly as she climbed the fence, and stood in a long, white road winding away over a hill, the sun which had been slipping, slipping down lower and lower, went out of sight and left only a ruby light behind, and all about the world looked gray. The sweet smells were there, and the wonderful cool air to touch her brow lightly like that hand of her mother so long ago, just as it touched and called her in the kitchen a few minutes before, but the bright world was growing quiet at the approaching night, and suddenly Joyce began to wonder where she was going.

Automobiles were coming and going hurriedly as if the people in them were going home to dinner, and they smiled and talked joyously as they passed her, and looked at her casually, a girl walking alone in the twilight with her hat in her hand.

Joyce came to herself and put on her hat, she put her papers together in a book, and the books under her arm, and slipped the strap of her handbag over her wrist. She went on walking down the road toward the pink and gold of the sunset and wondered where she was going, and then, as she lifted her eyes she saw a star slip faintly out in the clear space between the ruby and rose, as if to remind her that One above was watching and had not forgotten her.

CHAPTER II

Back in the kitchen she had left silence reigned, and all the pans and kettles and bowls which had been used in preparing the hurried evening meal seemed to fill the place with desolation. It was not a room that Nannette cared to contemplate as she came out to get the coffee-pot for Eugene’s second cup which he insisted be kept hot. She frowned at the jelly roll all powdered with sugar and lying neatly on a small platter awaiting dessert time. It was incredible that Joyce had managed to make it in so short a time with all the rest she had to do, but she needn’t think she could make up for negligence and disobedience by her smartness.

“Gene, I think you better go down to the garage and talk to her,” said Nannette coming back with coffee, “The kitchen’s in an awful mess and she ought to get at it at once. I certainly don’t feel like doing her work for her when I’ve been in the city all day, and then this shock about Junior on top of it all.”

“Let her good and alone,” said Gene sourly, “She’s nothing to kick about. If I go out there and pet her up she’ll expect it every time. That’s the way mother spoiled her, let her do every thing she took a notion to, and she has to learn at the start that things are different. What made her mad anyhow? She’s never had a habit of flying up. I didn’t think she had the nerve to walk off like that, she’s always been so meek and self-righteous.”

“Well, I suppose she didn’t like it because I wore that precious fox scarf of hers to the city. She’s terribly afraid her things will get hurt, and she pretends to think a lot of it because mother gave it to her last Christmas.”

“Did you wear her fur?”

“Why, certainly. Why shouldn’t I? It’s no kind of a thing for a young girl like her to have, especially in her position. She ought to be glad she has something I can use that will make up for what we do for her.”

“Better let her things alone, Nan. It might make trouble for us if she gets up the nerve to fight. You can’t tell how mother left things you know, till Judge Peterson gets well and we hear the will read.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t your mother leave everything to you, I should like to know?”

“Well, I can’t be sure about it yet. I suppose she did, but it’s just as well to know where we stand exactly before we make any offensive moves. You know mother said something that last night about Joyce always having a right to stay here, that it was her home. I didn’t think much of it at the time of course, and told her we would consider it our duty to look out for Joyce till she got married of course, but I’ve been thinking since, you can’t just tell, mother might have been trying to prepare me for some surprise the will is going to spring on us. You know mother had an overdeveloped conscience, and there was something about a trifling sum of money that Joyce’s father left that mother put into this house to make a small payment I think. I can’t just remember what it was but that would be just enough to make mother think she ought to give everything she owned to Joyce. I sha’n’t be surprised at almost anything after the way she made a fool of that girl. But anyhow, you let her alone till she gets good and ready to come in. She won’t dare stay out all night.”

“She might go to the neighbors and make a lot of talk about us,” suggested Nan, “She knows she’d have us in a hole if she did that.”

“She wouldn’t go to the neighbors, not if I know her at all. She wouldn’t think it was right. She has that kind of a conscience too. It’s lucky for us.”

“Well, suppose she doesn’t come in and wash the dishes tonight?”

“Let ’em go then till tomorrow. You’ve got dishes enough for breakfast haven’t you? Well, just leave everything where it is. Don’t even clear off the table. Just let her see that she’ll have it all to do when she gets over her tantrums, and you won’t find her cutting up again very soon.”

“I suppose she’ll have to come back tonight,” speculated Nan. “She has another examination tomorrow morning I think, and it would take an earthquake or something like that to keep her away from that.”

“Well, we’ll order an earthquake then. I don’t mean to have her finish that examination. If she happens to pass—and she likely would for those Radways have brains they say, that’s the trouble with them—she’ll make us all kinds of trouble wanting to teach instead of doing the work for you, and then we’d be up against it right away. It costs like the dickens to get a servant these days and there’s no sense in having an outsider around stealing your food and wearing your clothes. Don’t you worry about Joyce. Let her alone till she comes in. Lock the kitchen door so she’ll have to knock. Then I’ll let her in and give her such a dressing down as she’ll remember for a few years. Come on. Let’s turn out this diningroom light and go into the living room. Then she’ll know we’re not going to wash those dishes, and she’ll come in all the sooner.”

Nannette slapped Dorothea for breaking off another piece from the jelly roll, and turned out the light quickly. It occurred to her that there would be nobody to make another jelly roll when this one was gone unless Joyce came speedily back. She hated cooking.

But although she intentionally neglected to lock the kitchen door, hoping the girl would slip in quietly when they were gone from the diningroom and get the work done, Joyce did not return. Dorothea and Junior were allowed to sit up far beyond their usual bedtime, and after they were at last quiet upstairs, Eugene and Nannette continued to sit and read, loth to leave until their young victim should return repentant and they could tell her just what they thought of her for her base ingratitude. When you know you have done wrong yourself there is nothing so soothing as to be able to scold some one else.

When Nannette finally went upstairs to bed she took the borrowed fox fur and flung it across Joyce’s bed, with its tail dragging on the floor.

“I’m sure I don’t know why we can’t have that will read without waiting for that old mummy to get well,” she said discontentedly. “It’s awfully awkward waiting this way and not knowing what is ours. Why can’t some one else read it if Judge Peterson isn’t able to?”

“Why, no one knows just where it is. His valuable papers are all locked in his safe, and the doctor won’t let him be asked a thing about business till he gets able to be around. He says it might throw him all back to have to think about anything now. Of course it’s all nonsense, but I don’t see what we can do.”

“Suppose he should die?”

“Why, then of course, they would open his safe and examine all his papers, but his wife won’t hear to anything being touched till he gets out of danger, so we just have to wait.”

“Well, I’m not going to worry about it,” said Nannette with a toss of her head. “If the will isn’t right we’ll just break it, that’s all. I’m not going to let that girl get in the way of my happiness. There’s more than one way of going about things, and, as you say, she has that kind of a conscience. If that’s her weak point we’ll work her through that. If she thinks her beloved Aunt Mary is going to be proved in court as not of sound mind, she’ll give up the hair on her head. I know her. Smug-faced little fanatic! How on earth did she ever get wished on your mother for life anyway? You’ve never told me.”

“Oh, her mother was mother’s youngest sister, and idol. Mother was perfectly insane about her. Then she married this Radway, and everybody said it was a great match, brilliant young doctor and all that. But the brilliant young doctor showed he hadn’t a grain of sense in his head. He discovered some new germ or other and then he went to work experimenting on it, and two or three times was saved from death just by the skin of his teeth. Finally he let them inoculate him with the thing, just to observe its workings. He knew he was running a great risk when he did it, and yet he was ass enough to go ahead. When he died they sold the house and a good deal of the furnishings. Mother had some of the things up in the attic a long time. I don’t know what became of them. Sold I suppose, perhaps to get that fox fur. Mother was just daffy on that girl. She always wanted a daughter you know. And after Aunt Helen died,—she didn’t live many months after her husband, just faded away you know—why mother did everything for Joyce.”

“Well, I think she did more than she had any right to do for just a niece,” said Nannette scornfully. “It’s time you had your innings. I think your mother should have thought of her own son and her grandchildren, and not lavished fox furs on a mere relation. She just spoiled Joyce. She thinks she has to live in luxury, and it’s going to be very hard to break her in to working for her living.”

The clock was striking twelve before Nannette began to undress, and now and then she would cast an anxious eye out of the window and wonder how long the erring girl’s nerve would hold out, or whether she had really dared go to some neighbor’s and stay all night. If she had what could they do?

Finally Gene got up from his reading chair and went downstairs to see if all the doors were locked, he said; but in reality he went softly out the kitchen door and walked down to the garage with slow, careful tread, stopping to listen, every minute or two. But no sound reached his ear save the dreamy notes of a tree toad. The little gray clouds drifting through the sky were hiding the moon and making the back yard quite dark. Somehow a vision of his mother’s face came to him, that last day when she had called him to the bed side and reminded him that she left Joyce as a sacred trust to his care. She told him that of course he would understand the home was always hers and something like reproach came and stood before his self-centred, satisfied soul and gave him strange uneasiness.

He stepped quietly into the garage and looked around in the darkness. There was no car as yet, but he meant to purchase one the minute the estate was settled up. He felt sure there would be plenty of money to do a number of the things to the house that he had already planned. It was not really a garage, though he had called it that ever since he came home to live with his mother, it was only the old barn with a new door.

But there was no sign of any Joyce inside the old barn, though he searched every corner and even opened the door of what used to be the harness closet.

He closed the door and went outside, puzzled, a trifle anxious, not for the safety of the girl whom he had driven from the only home she had by his unsympathetic words, but for the possibility of what she might have said to some neighbor with whom she might have taken refuge for the night. And yet he could not bring himself to believe, that Joyce would be so disloyal to his mother’s family as to let others know of a rupture between them.

He went outside and walked around, but there was no sign of any one, and the dew glistened evenly on the new grass in the sudden light as the moon swept out from behind a cloud and poured down a moment’s radiance. There were no marks of footprints on the tender grass anywhere near the building.

Standing in the shadow of the big maple half way to the house he called: “Joyce!” once, sharply, curtly, in a tone that startled himself and shocked the tree toads into sudden brief silence, but the echo of the meadow came in sweet drifts of violet breath as his only answer. His voice sounded gruff even to himself and he realized that she would not come to a call like that. If she had strength of purpose enough to go at his harsh words she would not come at such a call. He tried again:

“Joyce!” and Joyce would have been astonished could she have heard his voice. He had never spoken to her with as much kindliness of tone in all his life, not even when he wanted to borrow money of her. Yes, he had really descended to asking her who had but a small allowance from the bounty of his mother, to loan it to him. And she had always been ready to lend graciously if it was not already promised for some necessity. He would soon have kept her in bankruptcy had not his mother discovered it and forbidden Joyce to lend any more, telling her son to come to her in any need.

He stood there sometime calling into the darkness trying various tones and wondering at himself, growing more indignant with the girl for not answering, calling her stubborn, and finally growing alarmed, although he would not own it really to himself.

But at last he gave it up and went in, putting it aside carelessly as if it were but a trifle after all. The girl was stubborn but she would have to come back pretty soon, and the lesson would only do her good. As for the neighbors, they must prepare a story that would offset anything she might tell them. And what did the neighbors matter anyway? This wasn’t the only place in the world. They could sell the house and move where Joyce had no friends, then there would be no trouble. Joyce would have to stick to them, for she had no way of earning money anywhere else. The idea of teaching school was fool nonsense. He wouldn’t think of allowing it. She would always be taking on airs even if she paid board, and then they would get no work out of her, and she would not be pleasant to have around.

With this reflection he fell asleep, convinced that Joyce would be found safe and sound and sane on the doorstep in the morning.

About this time the new young superintendent of the high school who was taking the place of the regular superintendent while he was abroad for six months studying, settled down in his one comfortable chair in his boarding house room with a bundle of examination papers to look over. This was not his work, but the two teachers who would ordinarily have done it were both temporarily disabled, one down with the grip and the other away at a funeral, and since the averages must be ready before commencement he had volunteered to mark these papers.

It was late and he was tired, for there had been a special meeting of the school board to deal with a matter connected with the new addition to the school building, and also to arrange to supply the place of a teacher who had suddenly decided to get married instead of continuing to teach. There had been much discussion about both matters and he had been greatly annoyed at the prospect of one young woman who had been suggested to fill the vacancy. She was of the so-called flapper variety and seemed to him to have no idea of serious work. She had been in his classes for the last six weeks, and he became more disgusted with her every time he saw her. The idea of her as a colleague was not pleasant. He settled to his papers with a frown that portended no good to the poor victims whose fate he was settling by the marks of his blue pencil.

He marched through the papers, paragraph after paragraph, question after question, marking them ruthlessly. Misspelled words, how they got on his nerves! He drew sharp blue lines like little swords through them, and wrote caustic foot-notes on the corners of the pages. The young aspirants for graduation who received them in the morning would quiver when they read them and gather in groups to cast anathemas at him.

But suddenly he came to a paper written in a clear, firm hand as if the owner knew what she was talking about and thought it really worth writing down. The first sentence caught his interest because of the original way in which the statement was made. Here was a young philosopher who had really thought about life, and was taking the examination as something of interest in itself, rather than a terrible ordeal that must be gone through with for future advantage. As he read a vision of a clear smooth brow, calm eyes lifted now and then to the blackboard, gradually came back to his memory. He was sure this was the quiet young woman with the beautiful, sincere, unselfish face that he had noticed as he passed through the study hall that morning. There had been half a dozen strangers in from neighboring towns for examination. Only this one had attracted him. He had paused in the doorway watching her a moment while he waited for a book which the attending teacher was finding for him, and had marked the quiet grace of her demeanor, the earnest expression of her face, the pure regular features, the soft outline of the brown waves of hair, the sweet, old-fashionedness of her, and wondered who she was. He had not been long in the town and did not know all the village maidens, yet it seemed as if she must be from another place, for certainly he could not have been in the same town with this girl and not have marked her sooner somewhere in either church or shop or street? The busy day had surged in and he had forgotten the face and thought no more of the girl. But now it all came back with conviction as he read on. He turned to the end of the paper for the name “Joyce Radway.” Somehow it seemed to fit her, and he read on with new interest, noting how she gave interest to the hackneyed themes that had become monotonous through reading over and over the crude, young answers to the same questions. How was it that this young girl was able to give a turn to her sentences that seemed to make any subject a thrilling, throbbing, vital thing? And she did not skim over the answers with the least possible information. She wrote as if she liked to tell what she knew, as if her soul were en rapport with her work, and as if she were writing it for the mere joy of imparting the fact and its thrill to another.

“Now, there’s a girl that would make a teacher all right,” he said aloud to himself as he finished the paper writing a clear blue “Excellent” upon it with his finest flourish, “I wonder who she is? If she’s the one I saw I’ll vote for her. I must inquire the first thing in the morning. Joyce Radway. What a good name. It fits. She’s the assistant I’d like if I have my way, unless I’m very much mistaken in a human face.”

CHAPTER III

Joyce had walked a long way on a long gray ribbon of road before it wound up hill and she began to realize where her steps were turning. Up there on the top was the dark outline of the old Hill Church, its spire a black dart against the luminous night sky. A fitful moon gleamed palely and showed it for a moment, still and gray like a little lone dove asleep, and about it clustered the white stones of the graveyard on the side of the hill sloping down toward the valley. One tall shaft showed where lay the dust of the rich, old, good man who gave the land and built the church, and others less pretentious flocked close at hand, a little social clique of the select dead who had clung to the old church through the years of their life, who there had been christened, married and buried.

With a catch in her breath like a sob Joyce hurried on, realizing that it was here her heart was longing to go, where she had left all that was mortal of her precious Aunt Mary.

It was not that she had any feeling that the spirit she loved was lingering there near its worn out earthly habitation, it was only that the earth seemed so alien and she so alone that it did her good to creep away to the quiet mound that some kind neighbor had already made velvety with close shaved turf.

She felt her way to the place, close beside the mound where her mother had been laid. They had always kept it neat and carefully tended when her aunt was alive, and now she sank down between the two graves with her hands spread broodingly, anguishingly over the tender grass, and her face dropped down on its coolness. How long she lay there she did not know. The hot tears flowed relievingly down her cheeks and fell into the cool grass, and overhead the quiet sky, with the single star in a clearing among the floating clouds, and now and then the serene, busy moon above it all, quite as if the world was going as it should even though hearts were being broken.

A sense of peace stole gradually upon her, and the ache drifted out of her weary limbs, and out of her lonely heart. It was almost as if some comfort had stolen upon her from the quiet grass, and the busy, serene heaven above. She did not feel afraid. She had no sense of the presence of her aunt, only a deep, sweet understanding that this little spot was sacred and here she might think entirely unmolested.

It might be that she slept for a space, for she was very weary and the day had been so hard, but she was not sure. Rather it was as if she were just resting, as she used to rest in her mother’s arms and be rocked, long ago, the first thing she could remember. The sense of her troubles, and her terrible situation had slipped away from her. She was just resting, not thinking. When suddenly the sound of voices—voices quite near, broke upon her, as if they had suddenly rounded the hill and were close at hand, coming on. Cautious voices, albeit, with a carrying sibilant, and something familiar about one of them. She could not tell why they struck terror to her soul, nor at what instant she realized that they were not just foot travellers going on by, but were coming toward her. She found herself trembling from head to foot.

“Look out there, Kid,” said the familiar voice, “Don’t skid over that poor stiff. Those headstones aren’t easy to play with and we can’t afford to lose any of this catch. Its worth it’s weight in gold you know, rare antique! We ought to make about four hundred bucks apiece out of this lot if we place it wisely.”

The footsteps came on, and suddenly as the moon swept out from the clouds for an instant she saw four dark figures silhouetted against the lighter darkness of the road, stealing slowly into the cemetery among the graves carrying burdens between them, heavy, bulky, shrouded burdens. The hurrying clouds obliterated everything again, but she could hear the soft thud of their feet, as they slowly felt their way. An occasional dart of light from a pocket flash flickered fitfully on a headstone here and there as she watched with bated breath. They seemed to be coming straight toward her, and for an instant she thought of trying to flee, but a great weakness overcame her, so that she could hardly breathe, and it seemed impossible to rise. Then the flashlight jabbed into her very eyes, and she crouched against the sod and wished there were some way to get down beneath it out of sight.

“What was that, Kid?” the voice whispered. The tiny flash fluttered here and there on the grass all about her as she crouched. In a moment they would be upon her. It seemed the culmination of all the terrible day. Her heart throbbed painfully, while she waited a long minute, hearing distinctly the oncoming feet swishing softly in the grass, the labored breathing of those who carried the heavy burden, the cautious whispers, and then, could it be? They were only two graves away. They were passing by. They were going toward the back part of the cemetery.

She lay absolutely motionless listening for what seemed hours. The soft thud of burdens laid down was followed by the sound of a spade plunged deep in the earth, and the ring of metal as it was drawn forth and hit against a stone.

By and by she gained courage to open her eyes and then to lift her head cautiously and glance about. Her frightened heart almost stifled her with its wild beating. The sky was luminous off to the east and against it the five dark figures were darkly visible, three with shovels, and one with a pick, the fifth watching, directing, occasionally flashing a spot of light on a particular place. On the ground a long line of something dark like a box or boxes. Had they murdered some one and come to bury him in the night, or were they grave robbers? She found herself shuddering in the darkness, and when she put a trembling hand to her brow it was cold and wet with perspiration.

She began to wonder if she dared to try and get away, and measured the distance with her eye. The men seemed so close when she considered making a move, especially the one with the flashlight! Its merciless eye would be sure to search her out if she attempted flight. Perhaps it would be safer to lie still till they went away and trust that they would go out by the same path they had entered and not discover her. Yet when she tried to relax and wait she was trembling so that it seemed as if the very cords that held her being together were loosed and she was slowly becoming useless like Dorothea’s big bisque doll that lay on a trunk in the attic with its head and arms lolling at the end of emaciated rubber cords. She had a frightened feeling that if she lay still very long she would become unable ever to move again, the sensation that comes in nightmare.

Then into her frenzied mind came the thought of Eugene and Nannette and how triumphant they would be if they knew she was going through this agony. They would say it was good punishment for her behavior, a just reward for her headstrong actions. Had she been wrong in going away as she did? Had they been right to insist on her giving up the examinations? Somehow her conscience, hard pressed as she was, could not see that they had a right to keep her from the only way she knew of earning her living. Somehow she could not feel that any law, either physical or moral laid any obligation upon her to stay with the children when the mother had known for three weeks of her coming examinations, and when she often of her own accord let them take their lunch to school if it happened to suit her own convenience. Junior might have been hurt playing ball at recess as well as at noon, and he always played ball at recess. No, her conscience was clear on that score. She had a perfect right to put herself in the way of not being dependent upon them financially, and the school teaching was the only way she knew to do it. Still, of course it was all over now. She had gone away from any chance that might have come to her through those examinations, gone out into space alone without any goal or any plan. She might have done that in the first place of course if she had known they were going to act that way. Well it couldn’t be helped now. She had gone and nothing would induce her to go back. Perhaps when she found a home, if she found a home, she might send back to find out the result of her hard work. It might do her some good somewhere else. But she was too tired now, and too frightened to think about it.

She stole another glance toward the invaders. They seemed to be arguing in whispers about something, gesticulating, pointing. Perhaps she might manage to slip away while they were absorbed without their notice. She made a soft little move to sit up, and as she put out her arm to steady herself the metal chain of her handbag clinked just the faintest little bit against the iron pipe of the low fence that surrounded the neighboring grave. Instantly everything was silent among the group of men, the dark figures as if they had been but shadows crouched out of sight, only the alert head and shoulders of one showed dimly against the luminous spot in the sky. She could feel that their eyes were focused upon her as if they had been spotlights out of the darkness. She did not dare to move even to relax her fingers which had been stretched to grasp the iron rail. Her breath was suspended midway, and in the whole wide, peaceful acre the air seemed tense as though the very dead were waiting with her for the outcome.

“Oh, God!” she prayed, “Oh, God! Help me now!”

It was the first time since Aunt Mary’s death that she felt herself to have really prayed. Somehow her heart had seemed stunned since the funeral, and when she said the words of prayer with her lips there had been such empty ache in her heart that they had not seemed to mean anything. Now in her great need she had the distinct realization of crying out to a God upon whom she relied and whom her faith of the years had tested. And just as distinctly she felt the surety that He was there. He had answered.

It was as if that cry for help was a surrender, a committing of her way to Him. As if she had said: “Here am I. I am yours. However right or wrong I may have been to have put myself into this situation I am here and helpless. If I am worth anything at all to you save me for I cannot save myself. I am giving my future into your hands.”

Of course there was no such logical sequence of thought or word in the swift flash of her appeal, but afterwards she was aware it had been a commitment and a covenant.

As if an answer of assurance had come a calm came upon her. Her breath moved on, her heart beat naturally. The tensity of the air seemed gone. The dark shadows by the pile of dirt stirred. A low murmur passed among them. They moved and came upright again. Their eyes ceased to pierce her like spot lights. They moved with ease and took up their shovels. One even laughed in a low, half nervous tone. Only one still stood and watched, his attitude alert, not satisfied that the danger was passed. He murmured a low warning.

“Aw! What’s eatin’ ye?” another replied jocularly. “D’ye think the dead can walk? It’s just a wild rabbit jumpin’ amongst the gravel.”

“Wild rabbits aren’t metal shod,” said the familiar voice seeming to come from a face looking her way, and she knew that one at least of the shadowy figures had not ceased to watch and listen.

It seemed hours that she lay there holding her breath, afraid to stir lest they come her way, yet feeling an impulse within her to get away. For at any moment they might come out and walk right in the path by her side. They could not fail to see her if they passed that way. Dear Aunt Mary lying so quietly beneath the sod! How good that she was not really there herself, that she could not know the peril she was in! Or was she perhaps near in spirit? Did God ever let those who had gone to live with Him come to guard and help those they had left behind? But at least she was not worried, for in heaven none could worry, being with the great God who knew all, and whose power was over all. God would not really let anything hurt her. She had cried for help and he would eventually bring her out of all this into safety.

The assurance that came with these swift thoughts made her calmer, and finally gave her courage to begin slowly to move a hand and foot out toward the path. There was a sound of soft thudding of the spade against the turf as if it were being replaced over the excavation and the men would soon be returning to the road. If she would escape unseen it must be done at once.

Slowly, cautiously, she put out her hand and firmly grasped the rail of the low fence surrounding the next little lot. The cold iron steadied her, and she next moved her foot with a motion so slow and cautious that there was absolutely no sound from it. But it was a work of time. Would the time hold out until she had removed herself entirely from the line of their possible route?

After the other foot had changed its place somewhat she was able to lift her whole body and move it over several inches into the path without perceiving any sign that she had been heard or seen. Pausing to take a deep breath, and holding her body steady a few inches above the ground she cautiously began to move forward. It reminded her of those moving pictures of divers and tennis players who by a slower manipulation of the machine are made to perform their tricks in measured rhythm so that every stage of the action can be observed. It meant perfect control of every muscle of the body. It meant deep breathing and a calm mind to perform the feat, and sometimes the wild beating of her frightened heart made her feel that she must just drop in the grass where she was and give it up. Besides her whole body was trembling with weariness and excitement of the long, hard day, and her nerves were spent. Big tears welled into her eyes and dropped into the grass but she was unaware of them. Only her will kept her moving or held her back when she would have jumped to her feet and run screaming from the place; only her sense that God was near somewhere and would help her, kept her mind steady enough to direct her movements. And sometimes, as she moved inch by inch away from the direct line of the men it seemed so slow, so impossible that she could ever get away that she almost fell down.

She had crawled thus on hands and knees some twenty feet, and was just considering the wisdom of turning her course a little farther to the left before striking toward the road, when suddenly she heard a low murmur among the men and glancing back saw that they had shouldered their implements and were about to start away.

Fear overcame her and made her forget caution, and she lifted one hand with a sudden movement to hasten, grasping the handbag tightly and once more the tinkling chains, slipping from between her tired fingers, struck against a headstone and gave forth a weird little sound.

Instantly there was silence for the space of about a second, the four men frozen into attention. Then stealthily, his body ducked low, one of them crouched and came forward. Almost silently he came, but she knew he was coming straight toward her. She was paralyzed with fear. She felt she could not move another fraction of an inch, could not any longer hold on to that cold, smooth stone she had grasped, could not draw herself out of sight behind a marble shaft that loomed benevolently close at hand. Then the realization that in a moment more he would be upon her gave strength to her weakness. Who knew what desperate criminals these might be? Grave robbers would not hesitate to dig a new grave and hide a victim in it where no one would ever suspect. Whatever they had been doing it was evident they did not wish it known, and it would go hard with any one who might be feared as an eavesdropper. The thought gave wings to her feet as she stumbled up and flew away in the darkness among the shadowy grave stones, out toward the road.

It seemed miles she darted among those stones, as noiselessly as possibly, but blindly, for it was dark, so dark, and the little spot of light chased her maddeningly, darting ahead of her and flickering into her eyes from the side unexpectedly, causing her to change her course. She was aware that the men had separated, and she seemed to be encompassed from all sides. Once she stumbled and fell across a grave with the myrtle brushing her face, and the scent of crushed rose geranium in the air. Strange that rose geranium should be identified in her mind at such a time as this. It seemed like a sweet thought reminding her of quiet home and love and peace. But she grasped the mossy stone above her and pulled herself up just in time to evade one of her pursuers; and lo, just at her left was the open field separated only by a scraggy hedge. She parted the shrubs and slipped between, thankful that her dress was dark, and sped away over the stubbly ground, only the impetus of her going keeping her from falling at almost every step. It was almost as if she were flying, as if she were upheld by unseen hands and guided. And the hedge grew taller as she approached the road, completely hiding her flight from those on the other side. She was conscious of confused noises behind her, but her own going was so rapid as to shut out any accurate sound. So at last she gained the fence, crept tremblingly beneath the lichen covered rails and tottered to her feet only to be confronted by a tall, dark figure looming in the road as if he had been waiting there for her a long time.

She caught her breath and turned to fly, but her hands were caught in a big, firm grasp like a vise, and a flashlight blazed into her frightened eyes for an instant. She closed the lids involuntarily and shrank away, with a dizzy feeling that for the first time in her life she must be going to faint.

CHAPTER IV

About half past seven the next morning, Nannette was going distractedly about the dishevelled kitchen attempting to get a semblance of a breakfast for the irate Eugene and at the same time deal with her two unruly children who half dressed were contending about the cat.

The telephone suddenly rang out sharply and Eugene dropped the morning paper with a snap and sprang to take down the receiver, an arrogant frown appearing at once on his face and dominating the anxiety that had been there ever since the evening before:

“Hello!” he said insolently in the voice he meant to use for Joyce in case it was Joyce.

“Hello!” came back a voice equally insolent with the effect of having been the same word thrown back resentfully. A man’s voice. Eugene was puzzled.

“Who are you?” he challenged with a heavy frown. Nannette paused in the kitchen doorway and listened and the children suspended operations on the cat and attended maturely.

“Is Miss Joyce there?” The voice held authority, and denied any right to interference by a third party.

“Who is this?” demanded Eugene angrily.

“A friend of Miss Radway’s,” came the prompt dignified reply. “I wish to speak with Miss Radway.” There was coldness in the tone. The voice had a carrying quality and could be heard distinctly across the room.

“There, I told you so!” cried Nannette hysterically, “The whole town will hear of it!”

Eugene made a violent gesture with his foot equivalent to telling her to go into the kitchen and shut the door, and Nannette retired out of sight with a listening ear.

“Joyce is busy,” said her cousin in a lordly tone. “She can’t be interrupted now. You can leave a message if you like that can be given her when she gets done her work.”

“I see,” said the calm voice after a moment of what seemed thoughtful silence, and there came a soft click.

“Who is this? Say! Who is this? Operator! Operator! You’ve cut us off. What’s that? Who’s calling? That’s what I want to find out. You cut us off before the man told his name. Look that up and let me know at once where it came from. What’s that? What number? Why that’s your business. You ought to know where a call came from just two minutes ago. You’ll look it up? All right. Get busy then. I have to make a train.”

“Who was it?” demanded Nannette appearing wide-eyed with dish cloth in one hand and a piece of burnt toast in the other.

“Shut up!” said her husband rudely, “Don’t you see I’m busy? I never saw such service as we have here in this town, can’t find out who a call came from.”

“Was it a man calling or a woman?”

“A man, of course. Isn’t there always a man where a girl is concerned.”

“I never saw a man come to see Joyce,” meditated Nannette wonderingly.

“Joyce was sly. Haven’t you learned that yet? You women are all fools about each other anyway. This was a man, and a young one. I’ve heard his voice but I can’t place it. Hello! Central! Central! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? What? You can’t trace it? That’s all bosh. Oh! You say it was a local pay station? Well, ring it up at once. What? You don’t know the number—Aw! That don’t go down with me. Give me the chief operator. Operator! Operator!—

“Hang it all, she’s hung up again! What time is it anyway! Gosh hang it, I’ve missed my train. No, I don’t want any coffee. Give me my hat; I must make that train. No, I can’t stop to tell you anything! Where’s my coat? It’s strange you never can help me when I’m in a hurry. Get out of my way, Dorothea! Dang that cat, I believe I’ve broken my toe.”

He was gone leaving an agitated family and a breathless cat emerging from the lilac bush where it had been savagely kicked.

“Well, anyhow, I bet I can find out who was on that wire,” said Dorothea maturely. “I bet they’ll know down to the drug store. I bet I can get Dick Drew to tell me. Most everybody phones from the drug store. They ain’t but two or three local pay stations.”

“Be still, Dorothea, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” reprimanded her mother sharply. “Don’t you go to talking or you’ll make your father awfully angry. You go wash your hands and get off to school. You’re going to be late. No, Junior isn’t going to stay at home. He’s perfectly able to go to school, and I’m not going to be bothered this morning. I’ve got too much to do to have either of you around.”

The telephone rang again at this moment, and Nannette hastened to answer it.

It was a woman’s voice this time:

“Is this you, Joyce? Oh! Is that Mrs. Massey? May I speak to Miss Radway?”

“Why, Joyce isn’t here just now,” answered Nannette sweetly. “Is there any message? Anything I can do for you?”

“Why, no, I guess not, thank you. How soon will Joyce be back?” “Why, I’m not just sure,” shifted Nannette uneasily. “Couldn’t I give her a message?”

“Well, you might tell her Martha Bryan called up to know if she would take her Sunday-school class next Sunday. I know it’s a little hard on her to ask her to do it just now when she’s been through trouble, but she isn’t one to sit down and eat her heart out when there’s work to be done, and I thought perhaps it would help her over a hard day to feel she was doing the Lord’s work. She and her Aunt Mary always were ones you could rely on to help. And I wouldn’t ask, only my daughter has been taken sick up at Watsonville, and she wants me. I do hate to go without seeing to my class, and I’m just sure Joyce’ll take it. But I’ve got to leave by three o’clock. Joyce ain’t going to be gone all day is she?”

“Oh, I think not,” said Nannette nonchalantly. What if Joyce should stay all day! How dreadful!

“Well, you ask her to call me just as soon as she gets in. I want to relieve my mind of that class.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Nannette ungraciously, “but she’s got a lot to do at home. I doubt if she can manage it.”

“Oh, but she promised me six weeks ago she would if I had to go.”

“Well, I’ll tell her.” And Nannette hung up snappily. She didn’t exactly relish everybody in town expecting that Joyce would go right on doing what she always had done, as if her circumstances in life were just as they had been. It was time people began to understand that Joyce was a dependent, and as such was not at the beck and call of every old woman and Sunday-school class. She was tired and angry from loss of sleep last night, and it was high time Joyce came home and did her work. Of course she must be out there in the barn asleep somewhere. Probably she was waiting for somebody to come out and coax her in. Well, she would go out and find her. There was the harness closet and there was the hay loft. Probably Eugene didn’t look very far. She would find her and teach her her duty once for all, and there wouldn’t be much petting about it either.

Nannette marched out of the kitchen door with the air of a conquering hero and sailed into the garage, the very crackle of her step on the gravel foretelling what was in store for any luckless miscreant who might be found lurking in the hay.

But though she searched vigilantly, and thoroughly, there was no sign anywhere of Joyce. Out behind the barn a fluttering paper caught her eye and stopping to pick it up she found it was an examination paper with answers scribbled after each question in Joyce’s fine script. Angrily she tore it in half and half again, and scattered it on the ground, scanned the meadow for an instant, and the distant road and then went back into the house just in time to hear the telephone ringing again.

It was a man’s voice this time, a strange, dignified, young voice, a voice that spoke as from authority:

“I would like to speak with Miss Joyce Radway.”

The sense of panic returned to Nannette, but she summoned voice to demand sharply:

“Who is this?” At least she would not make Eugene’s mistake and let any one get away without complete identification.

“This is J. S. Harrington, acting superintendent of the high school. I wish to speak to Miss Radway with regard to her examination paper. Is she there?”

“She is not,” said Nannette with asperity.

“Perhaps you know if she is already on her way to school?”

Nannette wished she did.

“She’ll not be able—” she began and then reflected that perhaps Joyce was on her way to school. No telling where she had spent the night with this in view. At least she must not give away the present situation to the whole village. Especially not to this interesting stranger. He must be the man they were talking about at the station last night, young and good-looking. What could he want with Joyce?

“I’m not sure whether she is going over to the school today or not,” she equivocated. “Is there any message?”

“Just ask her to step into my office if she is coming to school. If not I shall be glad to have her call me, as soon as she comes in. Thank you. Good morning.”

The click of the telephone was almost immediately followed by a knock on the kitchen door, where stood a small boy with a basket of luscious strawberries covered over with dewy leaves. He was freckled and cross-eyed, with two upper teeth missing, but he had a most engaging smile, and he wanted Joyce very much. He seemed dubious about leaving the strawberries when he heard she was not at home, and almost decided to sit down and wait, but Nannette explained that it might be some time and he surrendered the basket reluctantly with the message that “Ma” had “thent ’em fer Joyth and wanted the rethipe for her y’aunth’s maple cake.”

Nannette regarded the strawberries with a vindictive glare. Why should Joyce have so many friends? Since Mother Massey died everybody seemed so interested in doing things for Joyce and nobody seemed to bother about her in the least, although she was the son’s wife. It certainly wasn’t going to be pleasant living in this town until she had made Joyce’s position quite plain. But then, after everybody understood that Joyce couldn’t go out as much as she used to, and wasn’t wearing such fine clothes nor having leisure for picnics and Sunday-school classes and the like, people would soon realize that Joyce was nothing.

The next call on the telephone came from the minister’s wife. She wanted Joyce to come and take lunch with her. She thought it might take her mind off her sorrow a little and help her to get back into natural living again.

Nannette was furious, but she managed a vague reply. Joyce was away. She wasn’t sure whether she would be back in time for lunch or not. No, she wasn’t gone to visit friends. She went—well—on business.

The minister’s wife was surprised but courteous. Later in the afternoon the minister called. He said he had been unusually busy since the funeral or he would have been there sooner. He said he wished to talk with Joyce about a little matter her aunt had been interested in, and had hoped to find that she had returned.

The new school superintendent called up again while the minister was there, and seemed quite upset that Joyce had not returned, and when she finally got rid of the minister and went out to the kitchen to consider the possibility of having to get dinner without Joyce’s help, she was called back three times to the telephone. First, Susie Bassett wanted to know if Joyce couldn’t come over and spend the night with her, she wanted to ask her advice about something. Then Mr. Elkins called from the store and said his wife was all alone and not feeling very well, and he would be so grateful if Joyce would run down and sit with her a little while till he could get away from the store. Then Patty Bryson from up in the country called to ask Joyce to come up and spend a week with her and the children while her husband was away, she thought it would be a nice little change for Joyce.

With flashing eyes and sullen mouth Nannette turned back to her kitchen only to find Mrs. Pierce her next door neighbor standing on the doorstep just entering with a warning tap to borrow a cup of sugar—hers hadn’t come yet—and ask if Joyce was sick, she hadn’t seen her about all day.

Nannette was almost reduced to tears when she finally got rid of the woman who was a regular village gossip and had the real vulture smile on her face. But it was almost time for Eugene’s train and he was not noted for being patient at meal times. She flew around preparing what she could briefly, a can of soup, improvised salad out of odds and ends, a hastily concocted custard poured over some stale sponge cake she had hidden from the children a week ago and forgotten till necessity brought it to light. None of the articles were particular favorites of Eugene. He would miss Joyce’s tasty cooking, but it could not be helped.

Meantime, where were the children? Six o’clock and they hadn’t returned since school time! What would Eugene say if they were not here when he got home? She hastened to the telephone to call up their familiar spirits and get track of them, and almost every house she called either had some message for Joyce or wanted to know how she was bearing her trouble, and had some good word of sympathy for her. It was maddening to Nannette in her frantic haste, with one eye on the clock, and the smell of the soup burning. Now she would have to open another can. There was only a vegetable can left and Eugene hated that.

Then just as she was looking up the number of the last place where she might hope to find her missing family, they trooped in.

“Ma, is Joyce here yet? Cause our teacher’s coming down to see her right away. Say, Ma, can’t I put on my new organdie dress? The superintendent’s coming along with her. I heard them planning it when I was in the cloak room. And say, Ma, that must have been him phoned daddy this morning, ’cause I heard him say she had awful good exams. He said they were ‘very clever’ just like that. I’m going up to change my dress before they get here. I’m going to wear my new patent leathers too. And, oh, yes, Mrs. Bryan says for you to call her up right away and tell her what Joyce said about taking her Sunday-school class. She’s going to take the evening train, and she’s got to know before she goes.”

Dorothea’s voice trailed off up the stairs as Junior stamped in angrily:

“Say, Ma, what did Joyce do with my baseball bat? I wisht she’d leave my things alone. Where is she anyhow? Steve Jenkins says he saw her walkin’ along the State Road last night with her hat in her hand. And the minister asked me when she was comin’ back, and Miss Freedley told me to tell her she was comin’ over after supper fer her to teach her how to knit her sweater sleeves. And say, Ma, ain’t there any more jelly roll? I’m hungrier’n a dozen wolves. You didn’t have hardly anything fer lunch. I don’t see why you let Joyce go away. There goes the telephone. I ’spect that’s Ted Black. He wants to know if Joyce can help out on the Country Week Picnic Committee—”

His mother swept him out of the way and answered the phone just as Eugene entered with an angry frown:

“Where is Joyce?” he called out imperatively, just as a strange voice over the phone asked, “Has Miss Radway returned yet?”

Nannette, her nerves having reached the verge of control snapped out an answer:

“No, she hasn’t. I don’t know when she’s coming back. She’s away on a visit,” and hung up the phone with a click.

“Do you mean to tell me Joyce hasn’t come back yet?” roared Eugene ominously as his wife turned to meet him.

“If you ask me that question again I’ll die!” screamed Nannette, “I’ve had to answer it all day long. One would think Joyce Radway was the most important person in this town. I think it’s ridiculous your mother letting her get into everything this way, a charity girl! Well, you needn’t look so cross. She was, wasn’t she, even if she was your cousin. Everybody in this whole town is wanting that snip of a girl for something. I told you you ought to go out last night and make her come back. She’s as stubborn as a mule, and we’ve got a pretty mess on our hands. One would think she was a princess or something the way folks act. And the new superintendent is coming to see her tonight, and the minister wants—”

“There’s something far more important than those trifles,” glowered Eugene, “Judge Peterson has rallied and the doctor says he may read the will this evening. We’ve got to go over there exactly at seven and not keep him waiting. The doctor is awfully particular about exciting him. And I want to get this thing fixed up right away. They say the Judge has heart trouble and might drop off at any time now and that would make no telling how much more delay. This is serious business for us and you needn’t sit there and trifle about the village people! Joyce has got to be found, and found right away. Do you understand?”

“Well find her then!” retorted his wife. “You talk as if it was my fault she went away. Haven’t I slaved all day doing her work? And I’m done now. I’m just done!” and Nannette burst into angry tears and ran upstairs to her room, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

CHAPTER V

For three-quarters of an hour Eugene made it lively for his family. He stalked upstairs, captured his pampered young son in the act of purloining one of his clean handkerchiefs, gave him a cuff on the ear and ordered him in no gentle tones to go to one end of the village as fast as his legs could fly and find out if Joyce was at Auntie Summers or had been there, and demand her presence at home at once on important business. He jerked a library book away from his daughter and sent her to the other end of town to make the same inquiry at a home where Joyce had been a frequent visitor, and then he strode to his own door and shook it demanding entrance in such a tone that Nannette dared not ignore it. He gave his hysterical wife a rough shake and told her it was no time to indulge her temper, that action was necessary. She must get to work on the telephone at once and find Joyce. They must meet that appointment at Judge Peterson’s on the hour or they might lose everything. The son had said that his father was very insistent about having Joyce present when he read the will. It would look very queer if Joyce didn’t turn up in time.

He succeeded in frightening Nannette sufficiently so that she wiped her eyes and went to the telephone, calling up one and another of Joyce’s friends, and in honeyed tones asking if she had stopped there on her way home and might she speak to her a minute, there was an errand she wanted done on the way back that couldn’t wait. But one and all said that Joyce had not been there that day, and two women answered, “Why, I heard Joyce had gone away on a visit” so that Nannette turned from her fruitless task at last with a much disturbed face.

“She isn’t in town,” she said, “There isn’t another place I can think of to call.”

“Well, think of all the places out of town then, find out where she is, and I’ll get an automobile and go after her. Little fool! She knew she was making me a lot of trouble. She did this on purpose, I’ll wager. But she’ll get paid back double for all she does. Just let her wait.” Eugene was stamping up and down suggesting places to call, while his wife with more and more agitated voice continued to call up numbers.

“I’m almost sure that operator is Jenny Lowe,” she said with her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, “if it is she’ll tell it everywhere that I’ve called all these numbers. She’s probably listening in.”

“Jenny Lowe be hanged!” said Eugene. “We’ve got to find Joyce! Look at the clock! It’s half past six. Call Aunt Whinnie’s.”

Nannette called Aunt Whinnie’s but got no answer, and while she was still trying to get it Dorothea came panting back saying that Joyce hadn’t been heard of anywhere, and the teacher and the superintendent were just coming into the yard.

Eugene went frowning to the front door and disposed of the new superintendent in short order saying that his cousin had been suddenly called away and he was not sure how soon she would return. She might be gone several days. He intimated that she had gone to visit a sick relative, but when the young man got out his pencil and note book and asked for her address he replied vaguely that he was not quite sure whether she would remain more than a few hours where she had gone and she might make several visits before her return. But the young superintendent was not one who was easily baffled and asked for all the addresses, whereupon Eugene was put to the trouble of making up an address. It was rather hard on him for he had been brought up not to tell lies, and he always tried to avoid deliberate ones, but this time he felt he was in a bad corner and had to get out somehow. The hand of his watch said a quarter to seven, and he must get rid of these callers. What in Sam Hill did this young upstart want of Joyce anyway?

But the young upstart turned gravely away without imparting his business, and Eugene shut the door with unnecessary slamming, and went back to his wife:

“We’ll just have to go over to the Judge’s and do the best we can. We’d better fix up some story about Joyce. Perhaps we can get around the old man. I’ll tell you, we’ve had an offer for the house and we want to close with it right away. Man going to Europe and wants to get this property fixed up for a relative to live in—How’ll that do? Then we can find a purchaser and get this house off our hands. I’d rather go back to Chicago anyway, wouldn’t you, and get out of this rotten town where everybody’s nose is in your business, and the minister thinks he owns the earth, and can boss it? I’d like to know what business of his it was to come after Joyce anyway? Doesn’t he think we can take care of our own relatives without his intervention.”

At the door a small girl with tangled curls and big blue eyes presented a note which she said was to be given to Miss Joyce and “not to nobody else,” and which she steadily refused to surrender even for a glimpse until Miss Joyce should be forthcoming. There was something racially strong and characterful in the very swing of her little gingham petticoats as she swung sturdily down the front path and out the gate with the note still clasped to her bosom. Eugene called Dorothea to the front window to identify her, and Miss Dorothea lifted her nose contemptuously:

“Oh, that’s Darcy Sherwood’s niece, Lib Knox. She’s a tomboy. She can throw mud just like the boys, and once she tied a string across the sidewalk and tripped our teacher and she fell flat, because our teacher told her she was too dirty to come in the school yard. She’s only six but she’s awful bad!”

Dorothea said it virtuously, and licked her lips to hide the jelly she had been eating out of a new tumbler she had just opened.

Darcy Sherwood! What had Darcy Sherwood to do with Joyce? Could that have been Darcy’s voice over the phone that morning?

Eugene was silent and thoughtful during their walk to Judge Peterson’s and strode so fast that Nannette could scarcely keep pace with him. As they waited after ringing the old-fashioned door bell he looked down frowning and admonished his wife:

“Now, don’t you be a fool and spill the beans.”

They were ushered into the Judge’s room where he lay propped up by pillows in a great old sleigh bed, with his wife on one side fanning him gently, and his son sitting by the window with some papers in his hands, but as soon as they were seated the Judge’s eyes looked toward the door restlessly, and his big voice which had lost none of its brusqueness with his illness, although it quavered a little with weakness, asked:

“Where’s Joyce? Didn’t you bring the little girl?”

Nannette looked frightened and turned toward her husband to take the initiative and Eugene hastened to explain that Joyce hadn’t been feeling well since the funeral and they had sent her away on a little trip to relatives to get rested after the shock of her aunt’s death.

The kind, rugged old face looked disappointed, and his head sank back a little farther on the pillows:

“H’m! Then there’s nothing doing,” he said as if the matter were finished, “Dan, I thought I told you to tell ’em it was no use their coming without Joyce.”

“I did, Father. I thought I made it plain.”

“Yes, Judge, he told me, but I felt that if you understood the matter you would feel it wasn’t necessary to wait for the formality of Joyce being here. She doesn’t know much about business anyway and would naturally leave everything to me.”

“H’m!”

The Judge eyed the younger man thoughtfully, keenly, but said nothing more than that.

“You see,” Eugene hurried on blandly, “it’s about the house I’m especially in a hurry. We can’t do anything till the business is settled up of course, but I’ve had an offer for the house, an unusually good offer. The man wants to pay cash and get possession right away. It’s a man I met in the city in business relations, and he’s going to Europe and wants to leave his family here all safely fixed before he has to leave. Every day counts with him, and he’s especially anxious to get this house, and is willing to pay a good price if he can get the thing settled up at once. I thought perhaps you could put the matter through tonight for me so I could take advantage of this deal.”

“H’m! Does Joyce want to sell?” questioned the old man from his pillows, “Because if she does you better wire her to come on.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what Joyce has to do with it,” fumed Eugene. “It was my mother’s house wasn’t it? Naturally I—”

But the old man’s deep voice boomed out in stern and sudden interruption:

“Joyce has a great deal to do with it. The house belongs to Joyce.”

Eugene arose excitedly, his face growing suddenly very red, his voice raised far beyond the sick room quality:

“I don’t believe a word of it!” he shouted. “That’s a rank lie! My mother—!”

But Dan Peterson stood suddenly beside him saying in a quiet voice:

“That will be all this evening, Mr. Massey. Step this way please,” and Eugene found his arm grasped like a vise and himself propelled rapidly out of the room with Nannette in a frightened patter coming behind and some one inside the room shut the door. Afterwards in remembering, it seemed that he had heard a sound something like a chuckle from the region of the bed. It made his blood boil hotly when he thought of it. Of course there had been nothing to laugh at and yet, he felt sure the old Judge had laughed. There must be something—he must find Joyce at once.

They discussed it a long time after they got home and Eugene had got done scolding his wife for having been the cause of Joyce’s leaving. Eugene wanted to get a detective at once and find Joyce. He was frantic. He couldn’t stand the night through with this matter of the house facing him. He even had the telephone in his hand to call up a detective bureau in the city, but Nannette grappled with him for it, and pleaded with him to be reasonable for once.

“Just as soon as you get a detective the whole thing will be out, and everybody will be talking. You’ll have the whole town arrayed against us, and then where will we be? Joyce may come back tomorrow, and then there won’t be any need to tell any one. And anyhow you could have called her back when she first went if you had done what I told you, it was you that scolded her for burning the electric light so late last night you remember.”

“It was you that wore her clothes to the city wasn’t it? It was you that taunted her for being in a menial position! and wouldn’t hear to her going to those examinations that she set so much store by, wasn’t it?”—responded he.

Into the midst of this loud altercation there came a tap on the side door close to which Eugene was sitting. It was so startling for any one to come to that door at that time of night that Eugene jumped and sat up. Both were absolutely still for a quarter of a second. Nannette even turned a little white as she stared toward the door which had four latticed panes of glass and was lightly draped in open fish net.

Nannette recovered first.

“There she is, I suppose,” she said in a low whisper with lips that scarcely moved, for she was conscious that she must be under the eye of whoever was outside. “For pity’s sake don’t rave now and send her off again. And don’t you give in either. She needs a lesson after acting like this.”

She arose and gathered up her hat and wrap which were lying where she had thrown them when she came in from Judge Peterson’s. Her action seemed to bring Eugene to his senses. He got up and went to the door, opening it but a few inches and looking out with an air of affront.

But Joyce was not outside, as he had half made up his mind she would be. A man stood there in the darkness, a stranger he seemed to be at first glimpse, tall, well built, of almost haughty bearing—a thing Eugene could never tolerate in any man but himself. For a moment they stood gazing at one another. It was almost as if the man outside were sizing up the man who stood against the light. Then Eugene remarked acridly:

“Well, what do you want?” giving the door the least bit of an impatient jerk as if he were about to close it. The visitor must speak quickly.

There was perfect courtesy in the voice that replied:

“Mr. Massey? Sherwood’s my name. I’d like to have a few words with you.”

There was a grave assurance about the young man’s tone that irritated Eugene. Then he reflected that the man might have some news concerning Joyce and it would be as well to hear him through.

“Well, if you don’t take too long,” he said curtly, stepping out to the porch and drawing the door to after him. “We were just about to retire. I suppose you’re aware it’s rather late for callers.”

The young man lifted his hat with a grave smile that showed a row of irritatingly beautiful teeth, and gave him somehow the appearance of great advantage, but instead of telling his errand he put his hand out and pushed open the door saying pleasantly, and almost with an air of authority:

“We’ll just go inside if you don’t mind,” and was in before Eugene could resent his action. This was most extraordinary behaviour and Eugene half ready to eject him for his presumption, was yet somehow compelled to follow him.

It was quite evident as they entered that the visitor had intended to come inside for a purpose, for he did not hide the fact that he was taking in the whole sitting room with a quick keen glance, and even the hall and stairs and the living room beyond. He bowed deferentially to Nannette as she slid back into the room, curiosity in every line of her face.

Seen in the light of the room his face was extremely handsome, with an easy carelessness upon it that showed he made no merit of his comeliness, and cared little for impressions. Yet when he smiled even an enemy must needs listen:

“I came to see whether Joyce Radway has come home yet?”

The tone demanded a straightforward answer, in fact it was like a command, as of one who had the right to know. Eugene stiffened, resentfully:

“She has not,” he answered. “I believe I told you that over the phone a little while ago.”

“You did,” said Sherwood. “I came to make sure.”

He gave a glance about that had a sense of listening in it.

“Indeed!” bristled Eugene.

“When did she go away, just what time?”

“What business of yours is that?”

“It isn’t any of my business. I’m making it mine. What time?”

“Well, find out if you can. I don’t answer impertinent questions.” Eugene was white with anger. He would have liked to have put this intruder out, only the man was nearly twice his size.

“That’s what I intend to do!” answered the visitor taking a step into the room where he could look well through the hall and living room without effort. There was a grim set look about his face that meant business, and yet he turned to Nannette with that winning smile he could flash forth suddenly like the sun coming out from behind a cloud:

“Mrs. Massey, I’m not a bandit, and I’m not as impertinent as your husband seems to think, although I may be a trifle unconventional, but it is necessary for me to find out when Joyce Radway left this house and I mean to do so. If you’ll excuse me I’ll just step upstairs and speak to your son a minute. Don’t trouble yourself to lead the way. I’ll find him all right—”

He took one swift stride into the hall, before Eugene realized what he was doing and bustled irately to stop him. But the stranger did not need to go far, for Junior in bare feet and pajamas was hanging over the balustrade, his ears alert for the family scene.

“Hello, Buddie,” the young man said in a tone he might have used to an older pal.

Junior straightened up involuntarily and a gleam came into his eye. He threw one leg over the balustrade and balanced grinning, emitting a low “’ello!” It was plain that he was both pleased and embarrassed.

“Still interested in that baseball bat of mine, are you Kid?”

“Sure!” responded Junior coming down to the steps again and sticking his tongue in his cheek expectantly.

“Well, how about that package you were to deliver? Did you deliver it last night?”

Junior hung his head, and wriggled on one bare toe.

“Couldn’t,” he murmured in a low voice. “She went away ’fore I had the chance. She didn’t come back yet.”

“That’s all right, son,” said the young man pleasantly, “That’s all I want to know. May I trouble you for the package?”

“I got it hid.”

“Get it, please!”

“Junior!” broke forth Nannette’s indignant voice, “come here to me this instant.”

But Junior’s bare heels were flying up the stairs, and before his mother could pursue him he returned with a small indiscriminate bundle which he thrust over the balustrade where it disappeared inside the visitor’s coat.

“All right, Buddie, the bat is yours when you call for it tomorrow. At the old stand. You know.”

“Aw’right!” answered Junior with delight in his eyes. It was plain that his mother was nowhere in his vision while this hero was in sight.

The young man turned and walked swiftly back through the sitting room past the angry father and mother and over to the door. With the door knob firmly grasped in his hand he turned once more and faced his host:

“I happened to see Miss Radway alone on a lonely road quite late last night and was interested to know if she reached home in safety. I thought perhaps we might work together to find her if there was any necessity. But since you do not care to coöperate I will wish you good evening.”

The young man flashed a distant smile and opening the door was gone, before the man and woman realized what he was about to do.

For an instant they looked at each other speechless. Then Nannette broke forth:

“You ought to have asked him where he saw her! Go after him quick! Don’t let him get away!”

Stung into action Eugene opened the door and called into the night:

“Oh, I say! Come here! Wait a minute!”

But his words seemed to float out on emptiness.

Eugene stood in the door for a moment listening, but there seemed to be no echo of footsteps. Yet it was scarcely a second since the visitor had stood inside the door. Where could he have gone? It was almost uncanny.

Nannette came and looked out the door, and Eugene hurried down the walk calling out again, but no answer came, and his own voice seemed to mock him. He looked up and down the street, but saw no one. He walked around the house, and back to the gate again. There was no sound of automobile in the quiet moonlit street. Everybody had gone to bed and the lights were out. Strange! How could the man have disappeared?

“Junior! Who was that man?” screamed Nannette remembering and rushing back into the house. But Junior had a realizing sense of his disloyalty to his family, and had fled to his bed with the clothes tucked tightly around his ears, and his eyes screwed shut as if in deep slumber. When rudely shaken into being he yawned reprovingly and asked, “What man?”

Nannette brought him at last to a proper appreciation of the necessity and he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, him? He’s our coach, Darce Sherwood. You just oughta see him pitch a ball. He’s some cracker-jack pitcher.”

Questioned further concerning the package he said he guessed some old woman had sent it to Joyce. He guessed it was some seeds or “sumpin” to put on Grandma’s grave.

The mother and father looked at one another completely puzzled.